


Demon Kitty Rag

by Perditus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Sam and Luci play chess, Second Person, and Dean doesn't really show up, by the way it's the apocalypse, chess is a metaphor for everything, happy 2014, in which Sam is Lucifer's vessel, so people will die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perditus/pseuds/Perditus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all leads up to Detroit but you and the Devil play chess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demon Kitty Rag

**Author's Note:**

> Demon Kitty Rag  
> Author’s Note: Really like how this turned out. Chess is a great metaphor for everything.

_**Here kitty, kitty,** _  
_**There’s too much demon blood** _  
_**In these self-appointed angels** _  
_**-Demon Kitty Rag, Katzenjammer** _  
_**~** _

  
It’s been four months since you last spoke to Dean. Last you heard he was north, plowing through hunts faster than you ever could and it’s not the first time you realize it’s for the better you separated.  
  
Lucifer has been coming every night. You thought he would have better things to do. He tells you there is nothing more important than you.  
  
You wish Dean shared the sentiment. But he doesn’t.  
  
And so, tonight, it’s chess. It’s a funny sight, seeing Lucifer expectantly (and patiently—oh so patiently) waiting on one side of the board—the side with white pieces, actually. You’d have guessed he would have picked black, if you ever had to. It’s a ludicrous, stupid thought but he smiles to himself as though he heard it. He probably has. Whatever. You’re too tired to pretend it matters.  
  
“You know,” Lucifer moves a pawn before you even sit down. “Of all the things the humans invent, chess is one of the few I can really appreciate.”  
  
You’re not stupid enough to overlook the way he excludes you from that statement. Instead you regard him warily, slumped against the back of your chair. “What do you want?” You ask him tiredly.  
  
The Devil’s (stolen) blue eyes are so filled with honest sympathy you have to look away. He shakes his head sadly. “Oh, Sam.”

 

* * *

  
    Bobby leaves a voicemail on your phone, telling you about Jo and Ellen’s death. Demons, he says, outside of Washington. They were torn apart, their innards strewn across the floor in a macabre watercolor portrait. Dean found the bodies. You nearly snap your phone in half.  
  
    You drive.

* * *

  
  _"T_ _hey say the most important piece is the king,” Lucifer says after your knights are taken. The pieces disappear in his grasp. “But I should think it’s the queen, who has the power. Wouldn’t you say?”_

 

* * *

  
    You tear through a nest of vampires in a guillotine of anger and righteousness. One state over you torch a rugaru until nothing remains but a smoldering pile of ash.  
    You don’t even wince.

 

* * *

  
  You’re getting better but Lucifer still beats you every game. He’s not the boastful type, no matter what the bible might say about him.  
  
  Every time you get a little closer to his king he smiles proudly, the way a teacher would at his protégé, or worse—the way a father would at his wayward child. You have to swallow bile and repress a shudder, masking the tremor in your hand by moving a piece forward. Closer to Lucifer’s queen, (loyally guarding his king) and ultimately towards your downfall.  
  
  “Sometimes it’s better to strike quickly than not at all,” the Devil muses, but he sounds snake-like. In a flash his bishop is in the perfect position to call checkmate. You blink and feel like the mouse, caught under his fangs as the rest of his body wraps around you and begins to squeeze. “But Samuel, one cannot strike to cover one’s own fear. It leads to a messy strategy, you see. Far more sacrifices than there needs to be.”  
  
  Your blood runs cold and the Devil reaches over to stroke your knuckles with one bony finger. You think maybe it’s death’s kiss itself.  
  
  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” He prods gently. And yes, you do. Now you just wish you would stop believing it.

 

* * *

  
    The first outbreak of the new virus appears mid-2013. In the beginning, it’s no big deal, and people play if off with jokes of a zombie apocalypse. They’re half right.  
  
    They aren’t laughing when it completely takes over.  
  
    So you wonder why you can’t stop.

 

* * *

  
    It’s been a long three years, eight months and 16 days since you last spoke to Dean. But it’s okay. You haven’t spent them alone.

 

* * *

  
  The dead bodies lining the roads don’t bother you as much as they used to. In fact, there’s nothing gruesome about them, but maybe that’s what is so off-putting about them. There’s little blood and all appendages are attached and (for the most part) unbroken. You try not to think about how the kills to too clean to be a demon’s. Detroit is nice this time of year; cold, but that’s to be expected for more reasons than the normal weather patterns.  
  
  You wonder if there are normal weather patterns, anymore. You decide it doesn’t really matter. You look up at the sky and wish you still remembered how to pray.

 

* * *

  
    Last you heard, Dean was west and gathering survivors. Last you heard he was looking for ways to kill the Devil. You know how but one cannot strike to cover one’s own fear. He may have been the most important piece but you were the one who held all the power.

 

* * *

  
_“Checkmate,” you can finally say, but it must be a trick. Lucifer must have let you win. It was your dream after all, right?_  
  
 _Lucifer beams and he looks beautiful. Then you remember, he would never hurt you. He never lied._

 

* * *

  
  The Devil is waiting for you in Detroit, surrounded by roses. In front of him is a chessboard. He smiles and looks just as righteous as you remember. You now know why he is called the Morningstar. All you want to do is please him.  
  
  “Once more, Sam?” he gestures.

 

* * *

  
_“I could never hurt you,” he whispers and you swear you can feel wings wrap around you. But they don’t squeeze—no, never._

 

* * *

  
  You take a deep breath.  
  
  “Yes.”


End file.
